Lone Star
by grimey-gal
Summary: When the darkness comes, the stars will come out. But she is still afraid of the dark, and he does not think he will ever find the stars.
1. In Which We Set Up the Story

The summer rain had not taken away the heat; in fact, it had only worsened it by adding the damp, stickiness of humidity. Only the coolness of night as the sun slowly sank behind the flatlands finally gave a rest to the miserable weather, and the evening wind came as a blessed relief to the tenants. But there was something afoot – something in the air, you could say. Something that gave an added chill.

Closing her diner for the night, Vanita Brock tried to ignore it. But she could not, and neither could anyone else, so it seemed. The business was slower than what was the normal rush to catch one last meal before heading home for the night, and the few souls who came were in a hurry to leave. No one wanted to be out alone, in the dark.

That, she understood.

Floyd Robbins, a regular, stood up from his stool at the bar and stretched slowly, taking in the weather outside. "There's another storm a' comin'," he told her. "It's a smart move you're making, closin' up shop earlier."

She nodded, wiping down the bar. She felt weary and eerily empty. But she knew that like the storm, the feeling would pass, and when the sun came again the next morning, she would wonder why she ever felt the need to be filled. There was something about the shroud of the night that always left her anxious. She didn't tell him that the storm was not the only reason she wanted to hide away.

"There's no one here – I don't see the need to stay away from home if everyone else isn't," she responded. There are clouds forming just ahead; she can see the way they're already blocking the sky. A tell-tale sign of the very storm Floyd was predicting.

"Maybe if it does rain some tonight we'll have a cooler morning," she said. Floyd just grunted shrugged, taking down the last bit of beer in his mug before setting it down on the bar for her to take.

"Drive safe tonight," was all he replied, dropping his money on the bar. He nodded to the customer behind him, a lone crippled boy who had also found the darkening sky fascinating. "I better get him home soon or his mother will have my head."

Vanita grinned. "Can't take something you don't own," she joked, and dodged the balled up napkin he tossed at her. He just clicked his tongue in mock disappointment, shaking his head and heading over to his son.

He tapped the boy's shoulder lightly to catch his attention. "Come, Skippy, Momma's waitin' for the both of us," he said, signing each word for his son to understand. The boy began to wave his hands frantically and then point outside, where a small flash of lightning struck across the sky.

"I know – she don't like those storms. That's why we gotta go, kid," Floyd responded, still signing rapidly. Vanita watched them, trying to catch a word she could recognize.

She hadn't been interested in learning sign language before; she hadn't thought she'd ever need it. But then the Robbins had their first and only son, and he was mute and crippled from birth. No one in town had ever had a mute child before, and no one was quite educated enough to understand how to begin to have one. But the Robbins had gone over to the next town where they could take classes, and Hamilton Robbins – nicknamed Skippy for his canter due to his crippled leg – was soon just as average of a sight as the lightning that cracked through the clouds once again.

"You both get home safe," she called out, and to Skippy, she signed the only words she knew – _be careful_. Skippy waved his hands back in what she gathered as a _good night_. Floyd just waved behind him as he and his son raced to their car from the diner's front door, trying their best not to get wet by the sudden resurgence of rain.

Vanita gave the diner one last clean sweep before taking her umbrella out from behind the bar and heading out the door, locking it behind her as she made her way to her own car. She jumped inside, shaking off her umbrella and closing it up before shutting her door and starting the engine, shivering and waiting for the heat to cut on inside – something she found amusing.

"Wanting the heat on in the middle of a Texan summer – I can't think of anything more strange," she observed aloud to no one in particular. The heat slowly began to fill the car, and she held her hands out in front of the ventilation to dry out her fingers. Then she began the short drive home.

It was such a small town that she lived in. Almost not worth the drive, except the rain was falling ever steadily. A small town with small ideas, but she had watched it begin to grow. When she had been younger, people were different. More exclusive. She thought of Hamilton again, and thought about how much crueler his world might have been, were he born in an earlier time. In her time.

She didn't like thinking much about her time. Being a woman of nearly thirty years, she'd like to think she'd moved on from the past. But, as any good person knows, that notion is near impossible. She faced that fact tonight, listlessly switching her radio station over and over again, never quite finding something she wanted to listen to on her short drive home. She was there in front of her humble little shack before she had settled on any station.

She didn't get out of the car right away, and it wasn't just because of the rain. She had an umbrella, just behind her seat. She could get it if she wanted to. But peering out into the darkness, with only the heavy rain barely visible, she didn't quite feel safe, not yet. She let the car run and checked to make sure her doors were locked, and checked again.

Her gun was in the glovebox if she needed it. But there were things that even gunshot bullets, faster than lightning, could not stop. She sighed and turned the radio off, frustrated even though she knew that frustration would not give her what she was looking for. She didn't rightly know if anything ever could.

After what seemed like lifetimes, alone and facing death, the rain was merciful and slowed down enough so that she felt comfortable enough to make a dash from her car to her house, keys already in hand and ready to slide into the lock. Her shoes squelched against the muddy path to her front porch. She couldn't swing the front gate open fast enough before stealthily and quickly tip-toeing up the porch steps and unlocking her front door, letting it and the screen slam behind her. She locked and bolted it behind her, her heart still pounding away like the stallions after a betting race.

She stood there for a moment, in disbelief with herself. Ten years, almost, and even after all this time, she could not get over somethings. She still dreamed of him, of dark, bottomless eyes. A well that would hold nothing at the bottom. She always woke with a loud whirring in the back of her mind, and a faint and faraway scream echoing in her mind that she knew was hers.

She had changed so much since then. She never stepped foot into her old radio station when she made it back to her town, alive but dead in so many ways. She still hadn't, and with no one interested in running it, it became abandoned, sad and downcast, with dark, soulless windows. She took up a diner job, while learning how to fix cars and build houses and astronomy. She began to learn the ukulele, and looked into her family history, and read up on Filipino culture when she discovered her birth parents had traveled to the states from the Philippines at young ages, just trying to start a new life of their own. She learned how to cook some of their foods, like _adobo_ or _halo-halo_ , and began an attempt at their primary language of Tagalog. She only knew _hello_ and some other nouns, but she kept at it. She kept at all of it. Anything to gain a new sense of identity that was still herself.

She put a pot on her stove and lit it up, debating with herself if she'd like coffee or tea more, and then settled on tea. She did not need any added difficulty in falling asleep.

Her house was small, but it was functional and original, and that was what she wanted and needed. Just a small sitting room when you walked in, and the kitchen to the side, with only a sitting counter between them, and a bathroom, just behind them. There was enough space for a guest or two to sit, and the couch could be pulled out if anyone needed to spend the night, although she was never in a position where she wanted anyone to be there that long. She didn't trust anyone after dark much these days.

Ten years. She sighed, wiped away forming tears, and poured the steaming water into her mug before looking through her selection of teas and choosing on to steep, swiping a spoon and some honey to take with her to her room.

Next to the bathroom were the stairs, which she could pull down by a string. She climbed up them into her bedroom, closing the steps behind her and tucking the cord up so that it would not hang down below. It wasn't a guarantee that no one would think to look up, but the she'd designed it so that it was well hidden. The ceiling patter was all indented squares and lines to make an eccentric looking, but necessary, pattern.

Her bedroom was her sanctuary. All mattress and pillows and blankets, with lights crudely strung and old photographs of when her life was put-together hung around the walls, with built in shelves and books and old maps and dictionaries. Sometimes, when she needed to escape anyone, she would stay there the entirety of the day, just reading or practicing music or trying her hand at watercolor. Anything to distract her mind from darker thoughts.

But her favorite corner of her favorite room was where she kept her telescope. It had taken her years to save up and get one, but it was still the best purchase she had made. With her book of constellations next to her, she would look into the sky and connect each of the twinkling dots that were so far away, memorizing each of them and trying to learn to love the dark again. These moments were the closest she'd ever had to a therapy session, and they were the only ones she ever wanted.

Tonight, there had been rain, but she still made for the telescope now, opening the window and adjusting the settings to see if there was anything she could spot out in the murky, clouded sky. Next to her, the large book of constellations lay open, still on the page where she'd left it just last night.

She set her tea mug down, the honey forgotten, as she peered into the telescope and searched for something. For anything. A sliver of light, a sense of something beyond all of the darkness. Some kind of hope. But the clouds seemed thick and unrelenting, and she could see nothing. Still, she kept looking, and she kept waiting.

She didn't know why it meant so much, to see a star or two. She hadn't told anyone about it – not that she talked much to anyone about anything. The most she spoke was to Floyd, and it was mostly to check up on Hamilton and his wife Glorianne. She never talked much about herself, and no one ever really asked. She was sure they talked about her when she was not there; everyone in town talked about everyone in town. Some things never changed about the small town dynamic.

It was fine by her. She didn't want to talk about it much anyways. She didn't know if she'd ever have the right words to talk about it.

A sudden light caught her attention. In the corner of the telescope, she caught a glimpse of the clouds parting, and she could see it. Polaris, in all of his glory, had fought through that scummy darkness and broke through the clouds, and she watched in, her heart rising with anticipation. The North Star was one she always loved to see, because it was the one that always brought you home, no matter how lost you could be. With Polaris, there was always hope.

She stayed there, on her knees, perfectly still, eye on Polaris, until it disappeared again, the darkness veiling his light as if he'd never been there. But she had seen it, and that was enough. She sat back, feeling strangely sad and delighted at the same time. She had seen what she needed to see, tonight more so than usual. She was comforted in that moment. Satisfied, she sat back and nudged her hand against her mug, reminding her she had a drink and still some time before she had to force herself sleep.

She stirred the honey into her mug in slow movements, still lost in thought. She closed the window again, almost wistful, and locked it, then turned to look at her wall of photos. In it, she could see her adoptive parents, her old school house, her friend throughout most of her life, Bessie Higgins. Old memories. The first time she'd opened the radio station, buying her first record player (which she still had and used, and would probably use again tonight, just to ease her mind into sleep).

One photo stood out, alone but not lonely. It was the first picture she and L.G. had taken together. He was wearing an awful crop top with shorts, and she was awkward and grimy from being cooped up inside the station with a broken air conditioner, but they were smiling, and they were happy, and he had been alive.

She crawled forward to it, reaching out her fingers to touch it gingerly. He had been her closest and dearest friend since she'd lost Bessie, and now she'd lost him too. She hadn't had much time for friends since she'd lost him. There was no one who could get near her now, she felt. Not after what she'd been through. The worst part of surviving anything grand and terrible was that everyone wanted to talk as if you were a celebrity, but no one really wanted to be a companion.

A friend was someone she could use, but it didn't seem she had that luxury option. She opted for her books and her music and the stars instead. They were enough.

She gave her photographs one last look before sipping her tea in silence, calf-high socked feet rubbing against one another. She could hear lightning again in the distance, but it wasn't quite as daunting of a sound now as it had been before. She liked to think it at least. If there was one thing she still needed to work on, it was how to be brave. She hadn't been brave once before, and she thought about it sometimes, wondering how things would have been different. If things _could_ have been different. She knew that there was no point to going back to the _would have, could have, should have_ , but she did all the same, until her tea had been drank and it was clear that she would have yet another fitful night. She turned off the lights and rolled around in her bed until she was completely blanketed and pillowed in, as safe as she could be.

She tossed and turned in her bed, unaware that only a few miles away, out in an old abandoned farmhouse, a man with the reputation of a monster slipped away from his family while they drank and pissed and laughed at the same table, snuck out to the emptied slaughterhouse, and sat against its tinned, stained, and seemingly unsalvageable walls, looking up at the same sky and clutching a left-behind handkerchief, looking for the same thing.

Polaris, a Lone Star. Any sign of hope that even shrouded by the thickest of darkness, light could still be found, somewhere, hidden behind the clouds.


	2. In Which Michelle Comes Back to Town

The small town that it was, word had soon spread of Michelle Shatnell driving in from the nearest airport. She had been gone for quite a while after the largest no-one-talks-about-it nightmare that had ravaged the town, but her name had not been forgotten. And now she was returning, her name in the streets before she even stepped foot in them.

When she arrived, she had more bags in hand then when she had left, all those years ago, and she had a look in her eye that no person in Kingsland had ever dared to even dream they'd see in her again. It was clear that she had been around the world; she held that air of confidence and prestige that made people look on in awe or envy.

"I'm going to start a salon," she announced, first thing in the diner, before she had even taken a seat to order anything. She dropped her bags all around her, making herself at home. As if she had never left. As if nothing had ever happened. The town had known her as the Californian dreamer, but to see it in her again was astounding.

Vanita watched on from the other side of the counter, envy being what made her gaze.

"I've always wanted to go into business," she prattled on, to anyone who would listen, and by god, did many people want to listen to what she had to say. The town really was so small they hung onto any story they could get, and Michelle Shatner choosing to return to a town that wasn't even her home to start a business was story enough for most of the folk. Vanita swore she had never seen the diner so busy. It was as if a celebrity had dropped by for concert.

"Should I put up a sign with an admission fee?" Vanita mused aloud humorously, but no one really heard her. No one really listened to her much, besides Floyd, not since she'd stopped broadcasting. Which made her all the more green over Michelle.

"Well, we have an old shop that was burned down and was never refurbished," one of the older women told Michelle, a light already in her eyes. "We have a barber around here but your catalogue is… inspiring. It would cost a pretty penny though, to build that place back up."

Vanita knew where that building was. She wanted to warn them not to go there, tell them it was too far from safety and too close to danger, but she held her tongue. No one would listen, anyways. Everyone wanted to move on and pretend nothing was wrong in this town. As if there wasn't always a heavy overcast, even with no clouds in the sky.

"Oh, I figured any building not occupied by someone else would be a bit of a fixer-upper!" Michelle giggled. Unbothered. She clearly did not seem to fret over any potential obstacles. "I just know that this is where I'd like to set up shop. Prospects are good right now."

Vanita snorted at prospects, but kept wiping down the counter. A part of her wanted to hope it would be a good thing, but a part of her was still a skeptic. She had had her own dreams, once upon a time. Now they were riddled with nightmares. She could not help but look on secretly with a strong jealousy and longing. She had been Michelle Shatner once.

She supposed it didn't make much sense, the fact that she was so jealous. After all, for once she wasn't full of the nagging feeling that the people around her were talking behind her back, whispering secrets like the rattlesnakes in her backyard. For once, she knew for sure her name was not on their mind or in their mouth. She should be relieved. But for some reason, she is not.

She almost missed Michelle's voice from the whirring in her head, but her name is called again.

"What?" she asked, voice very far away. Michelle is much closer than she had expected.

"You _would_ like to come by a salon and get new look sometime, right?" Michelle inquired again, this time her face much closer. Too close, Vanita would say. She felt her face heat up immediately.

"Uhm…" she cleared her throat. "Of course. Maybe, I mean - I don't know…" she started, but before she had even finished her half-created thoughts, Michelle had turned around and begun chatting with an older man who was eager to share how his daughter would be ecstatic to hear that there was a high-end salon coming closer to town.

Vanita went to the back, letting the kitchen door swing behind her.

Michelle was gone from the diner almost as soon as she had swept in, but her name was still buzzing about in everyone's conversations. Vanita could hardly get a word in for everyone constantly bringing up their buzzing excitement about her arrival. Vanita would smile, add a small comment of agreement, and then her voice was washed under everyone else's bubbling conversations. A strong wave of relief washed over her when she could finally leave the diner that night, locking the door behind her in the same fashion as she had been every day for the last five years.

She supposed maybe her jealous came from the fact that she was just lonely. Outside of Floyd and Skippy, no one really talked to her much, and seeing Floyd and Skippy was rare in itself. Floyd was always out of town on a trip, and Carrie Ann found it to tiresome to walk town with her own health problems. It almost pained her to see how someone like Michelle could just sweep in and seemingly make friends immediately, while meanwhile, she felt she had to hide in the shadows. It was disgustingly unfair.

She had just locked her door when a sudden pounding made her nearly scream out loud in bloody fear. She turned to the window, where she could make out none other than Michelle Shatner's face peeking in. Behind her the sky was an iridescence of purple and pinks from the quickly setting sun. She wanted to hit herself, and her self-deprecating fears rose again: she was lonely because she was ruined. Michelle had to be wondering what had her so defensive from a dainty knock on the window.

Vanita rolled down her window, despite her begrudging feeling about the whole thing.

"Hey, sorry to bother your evening - I know you probably want to go home after working all day," Michelle started, and Vanita gave a half-hearted grin. Michelle leaned on the car door, head almost in the car. "I just wanted to pop by and say I'm sorry I didn't really get to say hi and introduce myself properly earlier - it was quite a commotion in the diner, huh?"

Vanita shrugged. "We're a small town. Lots of things can create a commotion real quick."

At that, Michelle snorted. "It is true; I had forgotten what it was like out here." She leaned back out and seemed to stare around her. If Vanita had thought about it long enough, she would have had the idea that Michelle held an almost fondness for the place. "You know, I really meant it. About the salon. I want you to feel free to come by anytime, even if it's just to talk."

"Anyways," Michelle continued. "I just wanted to say that I'd love to take some time to get you know you once of these days - if you'd like, that is."

Vanita cocked her head. She couldn't help herself. "I'm not very interesting," she countered. "I'm not sure why you'd want to waste time on little old me."

Michelle looked at her for a long while. There is a light in her eye that Vanita blamed on the sunset. "I don't know," she finally responded after a long and meditated pause. "I just think we might have a bit in common, that's all."

Vanita didn't respond. Michelle stepped back. "Well," she sighed, crossing her arms. "Goodnight then, Vanita."

Vanita nodded. Then she rolled her window up, slowly driving off. Michelle is still standing in the road, and Vanita kept looking back, just to see how long she would be standing there, alone in the dark. With a bravery she wished she had. She could never be in the dark like that. Not anymore.

The whole drive home, she wondered if Michelle liked to watch the stars too, and if she still stood after she turned the bend, looking up at the sky.


	3. In Which Bubba Plays Pictures

A ways down the road from where an old radio station used to be, just beyond some thicket of brush and wild texas plain, and down underneath abandoned grounds, a family sat around a dirtied table mid-argument, chewing away at meats and drinking down acohol until their faces were messied and grimed.

"It's the leg that's best, Gramps, and you know it!" Nubbins choked out, after sputtering and stumbling around over a couple of words a few times. "The leg always has the most meat!"

"The leg has the most muscle - and it's only good if you cook it right, which you didn't!" Drayton criticized, face wrinkling. "No seasoning either, I can taste the rot in this." His face was stained with blood dribbling from the rare piece in question, teeth bared and littered with food along the gums. He reached over the table for another beer, cracking the lid and taking a deep swig. He burped and leaned back, seemingly sated. "That's much better."

Nubbins eyed him reproachfully. "So why didn't you cook it then, since you're the handy one in the kitchen?" he asked, biting down on his leg, as if to spitefully prove a point. He appeared to have a hard time gnawing on it though, and it took several chews before he finally swallows it all down, drinking himself. He turned to the decrepit old man, who was in a rocking chair, cutting up his own dinner. "Don't you agree?"

The grandfather of the table shrugged and grunted something under his breath, uninterested. Across the table from Nubbins, Chop Top gave his twin a small grin, chewing into the flesh in his hands. "I think it's just fine, buddy, if you ask me," he drawled slowly, beer and driblets squirting down his chin. Nubbins just rolled his eyes, but seemed to be satisfied enough, muttering something along the lines of, "at least _someone_ appreciates what I do around here."

Chop Top leaned over then, to the silent brother, who was still looking down at his own plate. He had not touched anything quite yet, and instead seemed to stir the food around with his finger. His eyes were sunken behind his leathered mask, but even with his facial disguise the livelier twin could see that he was perturbed by something.

He elbowed the large man, trying to catch his attention. "What about you, Bubba?" he asked, leaning over the table to peek up at him better. "Help ol' Nubbs out here, will you? His cooking is pretty decent, right?"

Bubba looked up around the table. Drayton muttered, "This is ridiculous, you're just helping him turn into a pussy," while still taking bites off his plate. Grandpa was not paying a lick of attention, and Nubbins was eyeing him hopefully. With a sigh, Bubba grabbed a hunk of meat and took a bite, and then gave a small grin and a nod, to which Nubbins sighed in relief.

"Not so bad then, _Drayton_ ," he emphasized, gesturing towards Bubba. "That's _two_ people who say they like it just fine. I think you're just being a dick."

"Bubba will eat anything, he's a dumb shit," Drayton quipped back, flicking his fork's contents at Nubbins, who then gets up in anger. Chop Top joins in, whether because he is truly enraged or because he just liked to be part of a ruckus, it was hard to tell. The noise escalated until Grandpa finally snapped out of his comatose state to shout at all of them, "Quite down, the lot of you! You sound like a bunch of coyotes in heat!"

It was at that time that Bubba snuck out, leaving his plate behind.

He shuffled through the old tunnelways, kicking at stones on the ground on the way. He could still hear the echoing of the arguing around the corner. He winced at the way it seemed to reverberate off the old rusted tin around him, and quickened his steps until he reached the old doorway, creaking it open as quietly as he could.

He wasn't supposed to be out here. Not when the sun was still out, anyways. The risk of being seen by someone was high, even at their distance from civilization. Country folk loved to hike around, and there was no telling when someone would come across their hideaway. He supposed there was a quick and easy way to deal with that, if there were only one or two traipsers. He could hear Drayton's voice already though, irritated at him for slipping up if it happened.

He grunted and shut the door behind him, wandering over to one of the trees nearby. He sat underneath it, hands touching the dirt and patches of grass underneath him. The Texan heat was just starting to cool down, and he was lucky to feel a slight breeze come over them just then. The leaves above him rustled quietly. He leaned back against the truck and closed his eyes, just breathing for a moment.

His head spun a lot when his brothers and Grandfather would fight. They were loud, and he was used to it, but some days it hurt. It was loud, and he felt as if he could not think. Not that it mattered much. Drayton seemed to hold the opinion that he didn't have much of a thought anyways, in that lame brain of his. Drayton told everyone they were dim-witted, especially in comparison to himself, but he seemed to say it the most to Bubba.

Bubba liked to think Drayton was wrong. But some days, he couldn't tell. At least Nubbins could talk. He opened his mouth, but not a sound came out except something sounding similar to the braying of a donkey. He could feel himself flushing under his mask, even though more than likely no one had heard him. He scuffed his feet into the dirt, restless and discontent.

He heard the sound of the door creaking open, and he jumped, ready for the scolding. But it was Chop Top at the door, grinning like a loon. He was clearly drunk. "Boy - if Drayton found you out here, he'd have your ass, big buddy," he joked, stumbling over to him. He plopped down besides him and looked up to where Bubba was looking, eyes searching the clouds. "It sure is nice out here though. Nice to breathe something besides piss and sweat sometimes."

He nudged Bubba a bit, and Bubba let himself relax a little. He shrugged in response, fixing his attention on some wild flowers instead. He plucked them one by one, then pulled the petals off, letting the breeze take them.

Chop Top sat beside him silently for a moment, seemingly distracted himself by plain nature. Then he tapped Bubba's knee. "Play Pictures?" he asked, scratching the dirt.

Bubba grinned. He nodded, pulling some patches of grass to clear a space. Then he dug his fingers into the ground, drawing y-e-s.

Chop Top chuckled. "Okay, I describe it, and you draw it," he said. He pursed his lips for a moment. "Uhm - vinyl disc."

Bubba complied, dragging his finger around until he made what looked somewhat like what Chop Top was asking for. Chop Top grinned widely, pleased. "You're good at this," he said, rubbing out the drawing. He scratched his chin, and then snapped his fingers. "Draw some big old hooters," he snorted, holding out his hands. "Big round titties."

He laughed aloud, losing himself in wheezing laughter. Bubba didn't move. Chop Top gave him a look. "Well, I guess you wouldn't really know what those look like, huh?" he asked. Bubba didn't reply. Chop Top seemed to calm down, thinking again. "Draw a dog," he said finally. "If we could have one, I'd always wanted a hunting dog. A hound maybe."

Chop Top was drawing in the dirt, even though that was Bubba's job. Bubba didn't stop him though, just watched. "I think I'd name him Copper or something, you know? And we'd be running through the woods, me and my rifle, busting a buck right in the forehead," he imitated the sound of a rifle going off, holding his hands up, _bang! bang!_ Bubba could imagine it. "Or an unsuspecting wanderer, catch her right in the calf, then string her up for dinner for the next couple of days."

Bubba grunted, erasing the dirt again. Chop Top glanced at him for a moment, then dropped down in the grass, laying his hands behind his head. "Okay, Bubba, draw this," he drawled, eyeing the clouds. "What's eating you lately? You're awful quiet."

"Well, quieter than usual," he joked, giggling. But he sat up on his elbows, looking pointedly at Bubba. "Seriously though, what's on your mind, big fella? I wish you could just tell me sometimes. It'd be so much easier."

Bubba nodded. He leaned on his knees for a bit, thinking. Something like that would be hard to show in a picture. He tried to scrape in the dirt, Chop Top watching. "You're sad?" he asked finally, studying what Bubba had done. Bubba nodded half-heartedly. "What's got you so blue?"

Bubba shrugged. He erased the dirt and drew a question mark. Chop Top sighed. "I wish I knew too," he murmured. He sat up. "Is that why you keep sitting out here so much?"

Bubba nodded. Chop Top leaned against the tree. "Well," he decided, "I reckon I ought to sit with you then. Just for safe-keeping."

Bubba grinned, but Chop Top didn't see it. He had already closed his eyes.


End file.
